


Off Duty

by Kindle86



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Coming Out, Friendship, Homophobia, Homophobic Attack, Homophobic Language, Homosexuality, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kindle86/pseuds/Kindle86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sam felt the blows reign down; a particularly savage punch to the stomach had him doubled over with a loud 'ohph!'" </p><p>Sam is attacked outside a gay club. He can't keep it a secret from -everyone-. </p><p> </p><p>Could be read as pre-slash Sam/Gene, or just as a friendship fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Duty

Sam felt the blows reign down; a particularly savage punch to the stomach had him doubled over with a loud “ohph!” Large, strong hands then reached down and grabbed his hunched torso, shoving him against the wall he’d earlier been backed into with a loud, skull-splitting “crack!” He had no time to recover or even begin to process the new waves of pain running through his body, as blows started raining from what seemed like every conceivable angle, forcing him to crouch defensively against the brick wall.

“Take that you shirt-lifting pervert!” one of the voices yelled. Then came a ferocious kick which Sam’s left forearm only barely deflected from his already-bruised jaw.

The blows continued, along with the insults, until Sam’s vision blurred from the blood streaming down his face, ultimately fading to black.

As Sam slumped over, his right cheek landing harshly on the dirty concrete of the back alley and earning him a few new scrapes, one man grabbed the other’s arm, midway into another crushing punch.

“No, hold off. If yeh kill ‘im, we’ll have a load of paperwork on our hands ain’t nobody wanting to deal with.” The second man grunted, and the two turned and calmly walked away.

~*~*~*~*~

Sam faded in an out of consciousness several times before a busboy from the club he’d patronized just before this…altercation… found him.

He awoke to find himself lying in a hospital bed. A large profile stood in the doorway, apparently having words with a nurse. Sam’s world continued to spin, slowly swimming into focus.

“D’you ‘ave any idea what time it is, Tyler?”

 _Ah, the Guv_ , Sam thought to himself. All he could do was moan a reply. Suddenly a glass of water appeared in front of him.

“Drink, ya bloody ponce.”

Sam did as commanded.

Gene sat, positioning himself in a chair that had already been pulled rather close to Sam’s bed. Sam squinted. How long had Gene been there? How long had he himself been here? How the hell had he even got here? “Guv?” Sam managed. Gene looked, waiting for the rest of the question. “Wha—how--- uh..”

“You planning on getting a question out there anytime this evening, Dorothy?” Sam stared at him. “Just string them pretty little words together like you do—never stops down at the station, do it?” When Sam still didn’t say anything, the Guv decided to satisfy his own desire for information. “Fine then. How’s about you answer some of _my_ questions, yeah? Seein’ as you managed to drag my arse down here in the middle of the night!” All of a sudden, Gene’s voice dropped the bombast, betraying, ever-so-slightly, a hint of genuine concern: “What the hell happened, Sammy-boy? Who did this to you?”

Sam looked up at him with big brown eyes. “You mean, no one said? Who sent me here? How’d I get here and how long ‘ave—“ Sam paused for another drink; his throat was scratchy and his breathing seemed shallow. Sam tried to take a deeper breath and gasped from the searing pain.

“Broken rib,” Gene said, just as Sam thought the same.

“How long have I been here? have _you_ been here? …Why are you here?” Sam added the last almost as an afterthought.

“Jesus, Sam, wouldja like me to answer all them at once, now? Pushy picky-pain…” Gene mumbled. “Right, well, seems no one can account for you. Ambulance driver says he picked you up in an alley, but can’t seem to recall where… so I’m guessing someone paid ‘im not to remember, yeah? Which begs the question ‘where the hell were you?’ and what the hell were you doing in a place that wouldn’t want to be remembered? You weren’t on duty, so if it were work, you’re a right moron and workaholic and shouldda tol’ me ‘bout it and got some backup. Anyways, what else diju ask me? Oh, how long you been here? Coupla hours. I got the call when the docs figured out who you were—pulled your ID, phoned me. That would be around 2am. It is now 3am. I been waiting for your sorry arse to wake up for about 45minutes now, and I don’t right appreciate it.”

“Sorry, Guv.” Sam muttered, looking at the blanket he was fiddling between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m fine, you can go.”

“Fine? Like hell you’re fine. Broken arm, bruised jaw, broken ribs—that’s leaving out all the cuts and bruises. Looks like you got yourself another o’ them concussions you’re so fond of, too. And a right nice cut along your hairline there; they said you were a right mess o’ blood when they got you in here.” Gene looked him over again. “Gonna have at least one black eye by morning, and it looks like the rest of you is probably gonna match.” He paused, then added, a trifle proud of his wit, “That’s good tho, ain’t it? Shirt-lifters like to color-coordinate, eh?” Gene smiled at his usual barb; he assumed a bit o’ jockularity and male bonding would do the situation some good. He was in no way prepared for the stricken look it gave Sam; Gene had to double check his hands hadn’t just accidently punched him in the stomach for the winded expression on Sam’s face.

Sam swallowed and tried to return to his usual countenance. Noticing Gene’s narrowed, probing eyes, he leaned his head back and closed his own. “Sorry for the trouble, Guv. I’m alright though. You can go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gene stood dumbstruck. He didn’t move. Sam tried to play like he was sleeping, but Gene stayed put. Finally, Sam broke, opening his eyes just a sliver, peaking to see if the larger man was still there.

“I ain’t going nowhere till you tell me what the hell happened.”

“Nothing.” Sam responded automatically.

“Sure looks like nothin’.” Gene mocked. After another silent pause, Gene insisted, “Look, if someone kicked the shit outta my DI, I’ve a right to know what for!”

“No, you don’t. Like you said, I wasn’t on duty. It’s nothing to do with work. And I’m fine. I’ll see you down the station. _After I get some sleep_.”

Sam was defensive and jittery. Ok, so, not all that unusual. And insistent. Ok, still not unusual. But Gene could tell something was up; he was hiding something he shouldn’t be. _A copper gets beat up, he goes after the sons ‘a bitches, he doesn’t lie in no hospital bed saying nothing happened_ , Gene thought. But before he could press any further, a nurse came in and ordered him out; her patient needed rest she insisted-- and then beat him with her clipboard till he left the room.

Sam, figuring his steely tactics would work just fine for him this time as they had in the past, drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

Directly contradicting rather explicit doctor’s orders, Sam went to work the next day. Logically, he knew he couldn’t run down a suspect with a broken arm, broken ribs, and a concussion. Practically, he didn’t care. He needed to be busy—he remembered exactly what happened; as much as he didn’t want the stares and jeers, he wanted to be holed up in his crappy flat with that creepy girl and those memories even less. Besides, he could just tell them it was a bar fight; his Neanderthal colleagues would respect that. And G’d knew what would happen to the paperwork if he weren’t there…

Walking into the station was an ordeal in and of itself. The stairs were murder. The doors were heavy and strained his fragile ribs and bruised collar bone.

He received his first real dose of unwanted attention from Phyllis the Gatekeeper. Up till then, he knew he’d been stared at, but no one really knew him well enough to comment or question. Phyllis, on the other hand, both knew him _and_ had little practice in minding her own business. “Bloody hell, Boss. What happened to you?!” She belted in her usual dulcet tones. “You been shackin’ up with a prize fighter’s missus?”

“Very funny, Phyllis.” Sam tried to crack a smile; even his cheeks felt sore. _Well, they should_ , he realized; his jaw was bruised and his right cheek sported several nasty scrapes which were only beginning to heal. He didn’t stop to answer the questions he could see forming on her lips.

Pushing through the double doors to CID, he set his sights on his little 4” by 3” sanctuary; despite his near tunnel-vision, he couldn’t help but notice that everyone had apparently shown up for work today— _Lovely,_ he thought. _Just my luck._

His “don’t look at them and they won’t notice you” strategy almost seemed to be working; for a millisecond Sam felt the faint kindling of hope. Then Annie turned the corner.

He’d only just managed to make it to his desk. In the process of leaning against it in order to lower himself gingerly into his seat, Annie approached him carrying a cup of tea and biscuit. He briefly entertained the thought that the tea was for him; that she already knew what had happened—perhaps Gene and his big mouth—and she’d come to offer a comforting beverage. Then his detective eyes noticed the faint smudges of lipstick on the rim. _So much for that_ , he sighed inwardly _._

“Sam, I’ve got—“Annie stared, holding her tea in one hand and a file outstretched in the other. She dropped the file to her side. “What happened to _you_?!” She stepped closer, setting the tea on the desk and running a hand over his bruised cheek and across the two stitches on his forehead. Sam tried to keep the tension out of his frame, but he really didn’t want her making a scene. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t help but flinch at the sharp pain when she grazed the cut at his hairline.

Stepping back, Annie took in the whole picture—and it wasn’t pretty. “Sam, really, what happened? Are you ok to work?”

“I’m fine, Annie,” he tried to say as kindly (but firmly) as possible—he didn’t want an argument on the matter. “It was just a… misunderstanding.” Again, he tried employing his charming grin, but his cheeks just wouldn’t cooperate.

Annie was about to press, but Chris interjected. “Lover’s quarrel, eh boss? Makin’ eyes at some bird, boyfriend didn’t like it?”

Ray couldn’t resist; he seized the opening, muttering loudly for most to hear, “More like the bloke he was making eyes at!”

Sam turned his head slowly to look at Ray, ignoring the chuckles around him, his expression very clearly not amused. This insubordination from his junior was untenable, as far as he was concerned, and today was _not_ the day to push him.

“What was that, _DS_ Carling?” Sam spat the name and rank. Ray just stared at him. He couldn’t quite figure it; he could plainly see Tyler was in no condition to tussle—hell, a single blow from Ray would likely land him in the hospital, and that was assuming he hadn’t already been or shouldn’t _still be_ there; yet, Ray’d seen that look before, and he knew the DI was off his rocker enough to maybe just throw the first punch anyway. When Ray didn’t respond, Sam lowered his tone, “Say it again.”

Gene, who had been mulling over Tyler’s not-wholly-unexpected-yet-still-somehow-surprising presence, emerged from his office with a flourish, letting the loud banging of the door announce his intent to speak.

“Oi! Tyler! You look like shite. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Working, Guv.” Sam squared his shoulders.

“Don’t sound like it, do it?” Sam didn’t answer. “Don’t sound like ANYBODY workin’, do it?!” Gene yelled at the room. Everyone scrambled to look busy; suddenly the sound of papers rustling and pencils scratching filled the room. Gene moved closer to Sam, and, lowering his voice, growled, “Why are you here, Sam? You should be resting.”

Sam should have been taken aback by the sentiment, but he was too much on the defensive, too guarded, and too worried about being sent home or being found out or just passing out from worry and pain and fatigue. So instead, he sniped back, “I’m fine. Fine! Ok?! I’m here, I’m doing my job, if anyone will leave me alone long enough!”

“Fine. You wanna be here ‘stead of home watching tele with yer feet up, fine. Can’t say I understand it–“  [which really, Gene did; G’d knew he’d hated every minute he was forced to be away for sick leave or, you know, under investigation for murder…]; Gene’s voice was rising steadily in volume: “but yer here, so do yer pansy paperwork that yer so fond of, nice and quiet, because I ain’t gonna play school teacher an’ keep the bullies off!”

His blustering seemed, to Sam, par for the course, but everyone else understood it to mean “Lay off, or I _will_.” Satisfied, Gene surveyed the room, nodded his head once with authority, turned on his heal, and returned to his office with the same forceful shove of the doors with which he’d entered.

Everyone busied themselves. Sam sat, grabbing the first large stack of reports to be gone through.

No one bothered Sam for nearly 4 hours; it was paradise in paperwork. He lost himself to the banality and almost managed to block out the pains and memories of the night before-- except of course for the rather frequent protests of his muscles when reaching for another form or new pen.

Eventually, and miraculously, Sam ran out of forms needing attention. Which meant it was time to file the ones he’d finished and then check his subordinates’ status. Heaving a particularly large stack of files off his desk, he flirted with the idea of having Chris do the sorting, but realized that if he ever wanted to be able to find the reports he’d so meticulously written, he’d better see to it himself.

Twenty minutes later, he was free of paperwork. His euphoria lasted all of 30 seconds, when Phyllis slapped another file into his hands on his way back from the collator’s den. Sam let slip a disgruntled groan which Phyllis ignored; sighing, he made his way back to the office.

That’s when he saw them. The two men from last night. The shorter one, sporting a brown mustache and squinty eyes, and the large, burly hulk—who still had raw knuckles. Sam felt the adrenaline rush, the bitter taste in his mouth; _Oh my G’d,_ he thought, _is that my blood on his boot?_ He felt nauseous. Momentary panic hit: what were they doing there? More importantly, had they seen him? Not yet, it appeared, and so Sam tried to alter his trajectory, fly under their radar.

Gene stood. The two beat cops had just left his office—they had come carrying a particularly unnecessary and annoying message from Rathbone about new department firearms protocols; errand boys, nothing more. Though, if policy hadn’t been against shooting messengers… So Gene stood watching them go, glad to see their haughty gaits retreating. And his vantage point, the converse of all his subordinates’, was why he, and only he, saw Sam’s reaction to these two innocuous, albeit irksome, peons. Sam looked like a trapped animal; a dear in headlights ready to bolt.

Sam had almost made it to his desk, more than ready to tuck his head behind a file folder until the two left, when the larger one did a double take, then caught the mustached man by the arm. Eye contact. Sam’s stomach hit the floor. His mouth went dry. This was it. His work, his career, his social life—over. He had no way out of this, his brain was too slow, the painkillers too strong, his body too broken. _Hell,_ he mused to himself, _fight-or-flight…and I can’t do either._ Really, the dry humor in the situation was a testament to his inner strength—not that anyone would know or care once this was through.

All that took about five tenths of a second. Then the hulk blurted out, “Oi! What’re _you_ doin’ here?!” he turned to another officer in the room—Ray, as it happened, though the name meant nothing to this outsider. “You let perps carry their own files now, do ya? And where’s his escort, eh?”

The smaller, obviously smarter, of the two realized Sam wasn’t cuffed; moreover he was standing near his desk holding the file-folder at an angle that indicated he would soon be setting it there, presumably to read it. “Bloody hell.” He nudged his buddy in the ribs. “He ain’t arrested. He’s a copper!”

This hit the hulk like a ton of bricks. “You let _pansies_ work here?! Bloody hell, I won’t be signing up for CID.”

“I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that anyway,” Sam snidely remarked. He couldn’t quite believe he’d said it, but then figured, _What the hell? Why not? A smart comment is the least of my problems._

Gene, confused as to what the hell was going on in his office, noted once more that Sam was involved— _Sam was_ always _involved_ —and that despite the allegations, the menace in the two plods’ eyes, the clear history being dredged up here, and despite Sam’s obviously precarious position at the moment, he still had one hell of a smart mouth on him. _Bloody idiot_ , Gene thought, endearingly.

“You insultin’ my friend?” Mustache-man asked. “Do you need teachin’ another lesson? Did you not learn last night?”

It clicked. Everyone in the office stared.  Sam’s body gave a whole new meaning to the word “tense”.

“You beat the boss up?” Chris squeaked, dumbfounded.

“Boss, eh? Since when do they let fairies hold any rank?” he spat the insult at Sam, walking closer to him.

Sam’s cheeks colored- which, given the bruises, meant a deeper shade of purple instead of his usual bright pink. His eyes dropped to the floor—only briefly, but enough for Gene to catch quite clearly.

“Are you admitting to beating up my officer?” Gene shouted, throwing back his doors. His lion posturing set the two plods back a step or two. They stared, silent. “Are you _admitting_ ” Gene repeated, slowly and just as loudly, “to _beating up_ ” Gene gestured to Sam “ _my officer??? _ A _copper???_ ”

“We beat up a shirt-lifting pervert!” the beefy one defended.

“You watch your mouths, talking to a _superior officer!_ ” Gene shouted back. “Where do you come off callin’ him that?!” Gene was too irate to notice, but Ray’s countenance suddenly took on a mixed expression of shock at Gene’s comments and guilt at his own.

“We caught him coming outta one a them faggot bars! How was we to know he’s a copper?! And what’s he doin’ being a copper? He can’t be no copper!” He looked down at his friend for confirmation of this obvious fact.

Sam didn’t know what to do or say. Gene looked at him up and down, sizing him in an instant. Sam could see him make a decision; he just didn’t know what it was. Then Gene snapped his head back, staring lasers through the two blasphemous interlopers.

“I’ll tell you what he can’t be! He can’t be the best damn copper in all of Manchester, ‘cause that’s still me, and will be till the day I die,” he nodded with a wink at Tyler—which was more to get his crew on board than to ease Tyler’s nerves—several onlooking officers smiled—“but he _can be_ the second-best.” Sam’s eyes widened in shock. _A compliment? From the Guv? In public? After what they’d just said?_ “And he can be so damn good that he wouldn’t give up an undercover opp just because two morons were kickin’ the shit outta him!”

Sam tried to hide his shock. “Guv—“

“Shut it, Tyler! I ain’t layin’ yer career on the line for a long-shot here. Ya almost got yerself killed last night ‘cause you was too good to give up yer ID and these two idiots were too incompetent to stay the hell outta my jurisdiction. I ain’t about to let peons’ running mouths ruin yer standing for it.”

The two beat cops stood speechless, clearly in shock. Finally, the hulk managed a broken, “under-cover?”

“ ‘S what I just said,” Gene nodded.

“Well, how were we supposed to know that? We didn’t mean to beat up no cop,” said the little one.

“You still can’t beat up innocent civilians, just for the hell of it!” Sam yelled, his voice cracking trying to keep his emotions under control. “It still wouldn’t have been ok if I _weren’t_ a copper!”

“We just thought we was keepin’ a shirt-lifter in line. Without all the paperwork and what-for,” continued the mustached-man, addressing Gene.

“I wasn’t doing anything when you grabbed me, you… Neanderthals! There was nothing you could have even remotely arrested me for!” Sam was shaking with rage.

Gene laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, a look containing a what might have been pity flashing through his eyes. “Sam, let it go.” Gene squeezed gently. Sam closed his mouth but his jaw still belied the anger he felt. “Get the hell out of my office before I report you.”

The two officers turned, scurrying away, throwing a “sorry” and “thank you” and “yes please” and “please don’t” behind them.

After the doors swung shut behind the frantic men, the office stood in brief silence. “You’re not gonna report them, Guv?” Annie asked, meekly.

“It’s been dealt with. Sam’s alive. They’ve their tails between their legs. That’s all that needs done.” Gene stated matter-of-factly. Then he turned and walked back into his office, motioning Sam to follow behind him. Everyone understood--- that was it, it was done. No more questions, no more discussion; subject dropped.

Sam looked around at the faux-busy office and knew he had no choice but to follow. He had no idea what to expect in there; the end of his career was certainly still an option—one, in fact, that he saw as highly likely. But Gene had saved him from public humiliation, he’d concocted that story on the spot, and he’d done it for reasons Sam couldn’t fathom. Maybe he just wanted answers before he fired him; maybe he just didn’t like “those little peons” knowing something about his team that he didn’t… Whatever it was, he owed it to Gene to obey the command. And so he did.

Gene stood behind his desk, back to Sam, open whiskey bottle at his side, and glass in hand. Sam let the door swing shut behind him. At the sound of the “click” Gene took a deep breath. Sam braced himself for the worst.

“So, should I ask again?” Gene asked, turning slowly.

Sam’s response was a look of confusion. When Gene didn’t elucidate, Sam half-whispered, “I, I only just got here. Ask what again?”

“What happened? I asked you last night, Sam, and you wouldn’t tell me. Care to tell me now?”

Gene’s voice was eerily calm. He wasn’t yelling; he didn’t even look all that angry. Sam wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Look, Ge—Guv, I… Well, I just want to say, um, thank you. For that. For what you did in there. For what you said. And… uh, and this morning, I guess, ‘cause Ray probably would have killed me if he’d gotten a punch in.”

Gene nodded, acknowledging and accepting the thanks. Then, “That’s not what I asked, Sam.”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Well that’s not a choice you have, Tyler!” Gene boomed, his even demeanor coming to the end of its short life. “I get called out of bed at 2am to see you lying in hospital, half-dead. And you refuse to tell me how you got there. And then I find out you’re--- and I got one copper beat up by two other coppers! Tell me what the bloody hell happened!”

Sam glared. “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, ok?” Sam was getting defensive against accusations that had yet to actually be leveled.

 “What wrong place?!”

“You know what place! This isn’t the kind of thing you can lead an investigation into—I’m fucked either way, so why the hell would you expect me to tell you what went on?!” Sam drew in a frustrated breath. “You don’t want to know, do you?” he asked. “You’re asking me, but you don’t actually want to know to truth.” They both considered Sam’s words. Sam continued, more slowly, as if the situation was finally dawning on him, “But, you’re stuck now, aren’t you? Because you know there was no undercover opp, and you know what they said was true, and I know that you know… so what do we do now? Do you want my badge?”

Gene looked at him with sad eyes. That surprised Sam a bit. Of the many emotions he’d have expected, sad was not one of them. He looked almost forlorn or despairing.

Sam nodded, reached for his badge. As he hobbled forward to lay it on Gene’s desk, he suddenly felt a hand on his. “Don’t you dare.” Sam looked up, shocked—seemed a going theme for the day. “Where the hell’s the Sam Tyler I know?” Suddenly Gene was angry again. Very angry. 

“Wha--?”

“Where’s the pain-in-the-arse copper with his rules and reports and nutty ideas and never backing down, in your face incessantly pushing and prodding and fighting? And you’re just going to _hand me_ your badge?!”

It was too much for Sam. He was bruised and broken and now confused as well; he felt toyed with—he couldn’t tell if he was being supported or betrayed or if Gene was going to pretend he didn’t know what he had just learned and yet he wanted Sam to tell him but didn’t really want to know what he had to say.

“Let’s just get it over with!” He wrenched his wrist away from Gene's grip and flung his badge at Gene. It hit the larger man in the stomach and landed flatly on his desk with a sickening “thwack”.

“Tyler, what the hell—“ Gene looked genuinely caught off-guard by this turn.

“Don’t look at me like that, Guv. You know this is what this comes down to.  I either give up this job or get run out of it—and likely town as well! I’ve got nothing left now, don’t you see?!  I put up a fight, and I don’t stand a bloody chance. You did me a huge favor back there—and I still don’t know why—but your word is the only think keeping Ray and half the force from putting the puzzle together and kickin’ my head in! So if I don’t hand you this badge when you ask, what am I supposed to think is gonna happen???”

Eyes narrowing, Gene ignored Sam’s tirade, still intent on getting the truth out of the younger man. “I’m not asking why you didn’t tell Ray what happened. But _I_ came to that hospital at 2am last night. _I_ saw you lying there, you looked like you should be _dead_ , Sam! And _I asked you what happened_. How could you not tell me it was two coppers? Coppers in _my_ city, beat another copper— _my copper!_ And you don’t tell me? You don’t even give me the chance to deal with it?!”

“Because they didn’t beat up a copper last night, Gene! You still don’t get it! They didn’t beat up _your DI_. They beat up a fairy! _Just_ a fairy! Another poof left in the gutter to bleed! That’s what happened last night, Guv. Can’t you see that?! And that’s _not_ your concern!” And with that, Sam turned and left, before the tears streaming down his face had a chance to hit the floor.

~*~*~*~*~

Sam ran out the back hall, out of sight of his colleagues—who only glimpsed his silhouette and heard the slam of a door.

Gene watched him go. He knew better than to run straight after him. He also knew it’d do more harm than good to catch him before he got where he was going—which he was sure to do if he left now, given Sam’s injury-inhibited speed. He looked down at his nearly-empty glass, threw back the last of it, poured himself one for the road and downed that as well. Then he pushed his way out of his office, intent on tracking down his DI.

Gene found him on the roof; not a hard guess really-- where else would no one bother to go? Sam was holding himself up with the hand of his unbroken arm on the railing which ran along the edge of the building.  Shoulder locked, looking down, he was rocking slightly-- seemed almost fidgety, indecisive… not knowing what his next move should be. _Very un-Sam_ , Gene thought.

Gene walked up next to him, slowly. Sam’s only acknowledgement of his presence was a slight cock of the head, briefly. For all intents and purposes, Gene may-as-well not have been there at all.

After a long silence, Gene dug around in his coat; pulled out a leather flap and a flask. Taking a sip from the flask, he broke: “You said, about not having a choice but to give me your badge when I asked.” Sam looked up. “But I didn’t ask, Sam.” Gene held out his badge to him. “I never asked.” He flapped it, pushing it against the other man’s arm, until Sam reached out and grabbed it.

“But why?”

Gene didn’t understand.

“I hear you. I hear you all the time; all the jokes, all the insults. I know how you feel about me—I’m a thorn in your bloody side. And I know what you think of… homosexuals.” At the word, Sam broke eye contact and looked down again. “And now, the two things you hate the most are one in the same. And you could get rid of the first because of the last. And you’re not. Why not? Why didn’t you ask?”

“Because, Sam. I wasn’t lying when I said you were the second-best copper in all of Manchester. And I happen to know you’re the best DI. And part of what makes me the best DCI.. --And no, I ain’t never gonna repeat that.-- And I’d be a right idiot if I threw that away.”  Gene paused, then: “And even though you _are_ a right pain in the arse most days, I don’t hate you, you div.”

Sam kept rocking, it looked to Gene as if it were the only way to keep himself from shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t say a word.

“I’m standing here, Sam. I’m standing here, next to you, knowing exactly what you are and almost exactly what happened. But I’m still asking you, tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear it from you. I want you to realize _you can tell me…_ And that you _ain’t_ fine, Sammy-boy. But you’re gonna be.”

Sam finally broke, sobbing the words to Gene, “They beat the shit out of me. I walked out of the bar, and they beat the shit out of me.”

“Yeah.” Gene said, softly. “I know, Sam. I know.” And he placed a strong hand gently on Sam’s back, but rather than the usual manly gestures which are immediately withdrawn, he let it rest there as Sam’s shoulders heaved up and down with his sobs.

 

 


End file.
